Life in that cramped, tarry, fishy cabin was hard enough for a fellow who had lived at the best hotels and had the cream of everything. This painful wrenching of dollars out of the sea told sorely on his tender skin and undeveloped muscles. Yet beneath the surface he had enough of his father's stubbornness to make him stick doggedly to his lot, disagreeable though it was, if only he could have felt that he was receiving the consideration due to the son of John P. Whittington. Spurling's blow was the straw that had broken the camel's back. Percy had endured it just as long as he could. He had reached his limit. "I hate the whole bunch," he thought, bitterly. "Everybody's down on me, even to the dog. I won't stand it any longer. I'm going to get out to-night." His mind once made up, he promptly began planning. He decided to take one of the boats and row up to Isle au Haut. It was a good ten miles to Head Harbor, but he felt confident he could reach it long before daybreak. Leaving the boat there, he would tramp six miles up the island and catch the early steamer for Stonington. Beyond that his plans did not go. A flicker of light from the dying fire in the stove fell on the face of the alarm-clock ticking tinnily on the shelf. It was quarter to nine. Percy woke to the need of acting at once. At midnight Filippo would get up to make coffee and warm the baked beans and corn-bread for Spurling and Stevens, who were to start for the hake-grounds not far from one. By that time he must be miles away--too far, at any rate, to be overtaken. Overtaken? He smiled sardonically. Not one of them, he knew, would lift a finger to prevent him from going. He could just as well set out in the daytime. But his pride shrank from the relieved faces and grudging farewells that would signalize his departure. No; it would be far better to slip away by night, without saying anything to anybody. But his going must be unobserved. It would be humiliating to be detected. Cautiously he crept out of his bunk and pulled on his clothes, stopping apprehensively to listen for the regular breathing of his sleeping mates. But no one woke. The dying embers snapped in the stove. Nemo, slumbering on his canvas, stirred uneasily. Yet, so stealthy were Percy's movements, not even the dog's keen ears telegraphed them to his alert brain. A few minutes sufficed for the deserter to dress and crowd his more valuable belongings into a suit-case. Noiselessly he lifted the latch and stepped outside. It was a lovely summer night. A southwest breeze barely rippled the sheet of sapphire under the radiant stars. Tiny wavelets broke crisply on the pebbled beach. From the boulders that fringed the point came the drowsy murmur of the surf. A sheep bleated plaintively high above in the pasture; while far over the ocean to the south floated the faint, weird cry of a gull.